


Service

by perdix



Category: Chikara (Professional Wrestling)
Genre: Fear of Death, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perdix/pseuds/perdix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best way to destroy someone is to make them think they chose it themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Service

_When did he get that chair?_

Jimmy shuffles nervously. The air in the makeshift study feels stagnant, uneasy; almost oppressive. He’s not sure if it’s because of the room itself or the man who’s sitting in it— the man who called him here. The man who has requested he stand  _much_  too close for comfort. The man who is currently silently staring a hole through him over huge, gloved hands. His expression is unreadable, and Jimmy has to look away after a few moments, taking an interest instead in the worn burgundy armchair that Deucalion is sitting in.

"You have disappointed me, Jacobs."

His voice is grave and chilling, his words like lead weighing heavily on Jimmy’s shoulders. But they are also expectant, so Jimmy looks up— because he has no choice— right into those soulless black eyes, and shudders. It feels like they’re piercing his soul, disassembling him; picking him apart and analyzing him slowly, piece by piece. It’s terrifying. Almost as terrifying as Deucalion himself. Almost as terrifying as the reason he’s probably been called here for.

"On your knees."

Jimmy feels the color drain from his face, because  _this is it_ , he thinks, _Deucalion is finally going to kill me._ He doesn’t move. He should, but he doesn’t. He’s panicking, his thoughts racing uncontrollably around his head.  _I’ve fucked up, I’m worthless to him now, I’m going to kneel and he’s going to snap my neck or choke me to death or—_

Deucalion’s expression turns sour. “You do not  _hesitate,_ ” and here the giant reaches out with surprising quickness and  _yanks_  down on the chain around Jimmy’s neck, bringing him forcefully to his knees, “to  _bow_  before your master.”

Deucalion keeps a firm hold of the chain and drags Jimmy across the few feet of floor left between them. His face is close, it is  _so_  close, and Jimmy is uneasy; if Deucalion had wanted to kill him, he would’ve done it by now.  _What is he waiting for. Do something. Let me go. Please. **Please**._  He’s close to hyperventilating. His knees are numb. Looking into those eyes— it’s too much, it’s overwhelming— they’re an endless void and Jimmy is drowning in them. He squeezes his own eyes shut.

Apparently satisfied with his terror, Deucalion finally,  _finally_  releases his grip, letting go of the metal with a flourish that sends Jimmy sprawling back against the floor. His voice is strangely level when he speaks next.

"You’d do well to remember that."

It takes a few moments before Jimmy has caught his breath enough to right himself.

"Do you know why I called you here?"

Jimmy is sheepish. Cringes like an abused dog. He casts his eyes across the floor, finally settling on a discolored patch of threadbare carpet next to his knees. He knows the answer, but maybe keeping his mouth shut for once will help him live longer. Defending himself never worked in the past. The last time he’d tried, it ended in the death of a comrade-  _it’s **your**  fault Shard is dead,_ Jimmy’s mind hisses— and besides, he doubts his voice would work properly if he even did try to speak.

He feels Deucalion’s frown more than he sees it.

"…Look at me."

He won’t.

Deucalion grabs his chin firmly and Jimmy is suddenly struck by how truly massive the giant’s hand is.

"When did you fall, Jimmy Jacobs? You were once a proud man, were you not? What happened to you?"

Deucalion stares at Jimmy expectantly, and he realizes it’s not a rhetorical question.

"You." His voice sounds brittle, like it’s about to break. The corners of the Titan’s mouth twitch in the dark phantom of a smile. He slides the hand holding Jimmy’s jaw up the side of his face with a facsimile of tenderness, gazing at him almost fondly, as if he were a prized possession.

Another shadow smile.

"Correct."

Jacobs, to his disgust, finds himself wanting to lean into the touch. The giant’s paw slips to the back of his neck now, sliding up into his hairline, touch still mockingly, threateningly gentle. Jimmy is shaking. His heart is pounding a brutal tattoo against his ribs. He doesn’t like this.  _What is happening._

Without warning, Deucalion grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls back, and Jimmy cries out in surprise. His neck is exposed and vulnerable, his throat feels thick and dry with fear. The man— the  _monster_ — leans in again, his presence overbearingly, terrifyingly, intimately close. Deucalion is towering over him. Dominating all his senses. He is all around him, everywhere. Jimmy whines, feels himself being swallowed up.

"Prostrate yourself before me."

He doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t know what he’s supposed to  _do_ , but the words sound ominous, laced with something that makes Jimmy’s stomach turn.

He flicks his eyes upwards and… Deucalion is smiling. Genuinely  _smiling_. Like he’s pleased with himself. It’s small, but it’s still there, right on his face. Deucalion is  _smiling,_  and that somehow chills Jimmy’s veins more than any growled death threat.

And then he…lets him go. Scoots the armchair back ( _why??_  Jimmy is puzzled; this whole situation is suddenly very confusing, very alien), sits down, and just watches. Like he finds Jimmy’s apprehension satisfying. A tangible air of smugness surrounds him, and a strange annoyance flickers through Jimmy, on top of the fear—  _of course I don’t understand you, you cryptic bastard, you did that on purpose_.

It dawns on him suddenly that there is no real reason for any of this. It’s not meant to teach a lesson, it’s not for punishment. No, Deucalion is terrorizing him purely for enjoyment. Because he finds it  _fun_. Because, in his mind, Jacobs is nothing but a plaything.

Deucalion speaks, without warning.

"Come forward."

Jacobs shoots him a brazen look and briefly considers not doing it, but—  _fucking coward_ — he values his life more than his pride. So he shuffles forward dutifully, obediently—  _like a dog,_  god he feels sick— till he’s just shy of between those towering legs.

"Your sudden defiance is entertaining, but unwise," Deucalion says conversationally. "I would advise against it if you value your well-being." He grabs Jimmy’s arm, jerks him forward and  _twists_ , and it hurts, it fucking  _hurts_ , it rips a cry from Jimmy’s throat.

"There are many advantages to working limbs."  
  
His apologies are panicked and desperate, loud enough that they echo off the walls, but Jimmy doesn’t care, they barely even register in his head, because Deucalion is going to  _break his arm_ , he’s sure of it.

Deucalion only releases his grip once he’s sure any spark of rebellion has died, and Jimmy hunches over, hissing, cradling his arm close to his body like a wounded animal. It’s not broken, thank god, but the muscles throb painfully, and a bruise in the rough shape of a hand print is already beginning to bloom under his skin, a crude reminder of the dangers of being non-compliant.

He’s given a few moments to recuperate before, condescendingly— “Now, if you are done being difficult, I believe there was something I asked you to do.”

The statement is embellished with the slightest spread of his legs. The movement catches Jimmy’s eye, and the implication makes something creep into him, something that drapes over his heart, chill and foreboding. Jimmy looks up, because he needs to know— has to make sure…  _that’s not what he means, there’s no way…_  
  
A pointed glance downward from those black eyes, its meaning inescapable, a cruel smirk, a gaze that lingers on his lips.

"You know what I want."

Whatever’s made its way into Jimmy’s chest sinks now, down to the pit of his stomach, where it settles, paralyzing and dreadful, like an unwelcome guest.

In words heavy and final, laced in ice, Deucalion says, “Service me.”

Jimmy doesn’t move. Just stares. Wonders how he didn’t notice the bulge in those black pants before.

With a snarl, Deucalion lunges forward, grabs Jacobs by the hair and tugs his head back _hard_ , hard enough to make him yelp. His neck is craned at an uncomfortable angle, one that forces him to look Deucalion straight in the eyes as he leans down, down, down, until their faces are only inches apart.

_”Do. As. You. Are. Told.”_  Quiet. Deadly. Dripping with venom.

Jimmy gives him the ghost of a nod.

"Good." With a mocking smile, Decualion straightens back up, relaxing his grip on Jimmy’s hair.

Jimmy exhales (when did he start holding his breath?) and lets the Titan guide him forward. Tentatively, he braces a hand on a single, massive thigh, leans in till his nose touches black cloth. The color envelopes his vision. His head feels light. Strange. Like his consciousness is floating somewhere up and to the right. He opens his mouth.

_This isn’t real,_  Jimmy concludes,  _this can’t be real._  There’s no way that’s actually the outline of Deucalion’s cock straining against his pants, there’s no way that that’s Deucalion’s hand tangled in his hair, there’s no way that Jimmy is mouthing at him hotly through the fabric. There’s no way Deucalion is tipping his head back now and moaning low. None. This can’t be happening. It’s just a dream. Jimmy licks a wide stripe up the length of Deucalion’s cock and the Titan moans louder.  _Surreal._

After a while, Deucalion pulls him back. Jimmy’s not sure how long. He hasn’t been keeping track of time.

"Tell me," he purrs, "are you afraid for your life?"

_Yes. No. Not in this moment._  Jimmy doesn’t know the answer. Doesn’t know if he’s supposed to.

"Should you be?" Deucalion sounds…tender.

Jimmy blinks. He doesn’t know how to answer this either. Instead, he lowers his eyes again, latches back onto Deucalion’s cock, kisses the head of it though the spit-soaked fabric.

Above him, Deucalion huffs, amused. It’s…strange, seeing him like this. He’s not being violent. He’s not grabbing Jimmy by his chain and wrenching him close, staring down at him with barely contained rage, gripping so tight that the links bite into the back of Jimmy’s neck and make it hard to breathe. Not looking at him with wide, angry eyes and nostrils flared, breathing fast and heavy like a bull about to charge. This is the first time Jimmy’s felt like his life isn’t in immediate danger. This is the first time he’s really felt  _safe_. It’s euphoric; it makes his head swim.

Jimmy’s not  _scared_ for once, which means he’s not thinking rationally anymore. His body is a live wire, thrumming with jittery, nervous energy as his hands reach for Deucalion’s belt. Half-lidded, predatory eyes follow Jimmy’s tongue as it darts quickly across his parched lips, watch the movement of his throat as he swallows. Jimmy unbuckles the belt, pulls down the waistband of his underwear— god, he’s  _huge_ — and goes on autopilot.

As much as it sickens him to admit, he is thankful to finally have a real, tangible way to satiate the monster. Blowjobs he can do. That’s easy. He’s good at those. But managing an army… that’s different. So many human variables. So much potential for error. Such a high toll to pay for failure. Jimmy knows that, ultimately, he does not have complete control over actions of those under his command. Leadership is an abstract concept, and victory an elusive goal. But  _t_ _his_ , this is concrete. This is a demand he can satisfy. And in some horrible, twisted way, he is grateful for it.

A sudden pressure between his legs forces him cruelly back to reality. Deucalion has the sole of one huge boot resting against his crotch and, _oh god,_ when did he get half-hard? He’s sure the realization is evident on his face, even surer when Deucalion smirks down at him and  _presses_ , and Jimmy hates,  _hates_  himself for arching into the touch, for the way his mouth falters momentarily on Deucalion’s cock, for the tiny gasp that slips unbidden from his throat.

The chuckle from above makes shame burn on Jimmy’s cheeks as he starts up again, swallowing as much as he can; half as an apology for stopping, half as a desperate attempt to distract himself from that steady, persistent  _pressure_ , from how horribly, guiltily  _good_  it feels.

Jimmy refuses to make make eye contact but it doesn’t matter, because he can sense the look of amusement on Deucalion’s face. He tries to focus on his work, on hollowing out his cheeks and bobbing his head, all wet tongue and hot mouth, but Deucalion won’t stop rocking his boot against him, and the friction is good— he’s entirely hard now, can feel pre-come starting to dampen the fabric of his underwear— but it’s not enough, it’s just shy of enough, and it’s making him unravel at the seams. He’s caught between bucking his hips and trying to cant them away, because Deucalion needs to either quit or give him  _more_ , he doesn’t know which.

The hand still in his hair pulls Jimmy’s head to the side, not harshly, and Jimmy looks into the eyes of the beast, shudders, runs his tongue up from base to tip. Deucalion makes an approving humming noise that sends a tingle down his spine, and Jimmy groans. It takes all of what little willpower he has left to not rock himself forward, bringing his body to a shaking, stuttering halt.

"This will be much easier if you stop fighting." It’s a suggestion, not an order. He sounds almost benevolent.

Jimmy finally yields. He stops thinking. The presence above him is oppressive; the body under him speaks of superiority, of authority and raw power. It should frighten him, should make him want to draw into himself and disappear, but it doesn’t, not anymore, not right now. His mind is hazy with arousal, tinged with fear and an animal need.

Satisfied, Deucalion lets go of him entirely, resting his head on the back of the armchair and slipping his eyes closed as Jimmy works him over with a new fervor. His foot is no longer between Jimmy’s legs, but it doesn’t matter, because his hips are twitching anyway, and he’s so fucking desperate for something,  _anything_ —

Jimmy breaks away to pant, to  _whine_  up at Deucalion, “Please—“

Deucalion knows what he’s going to say before he even says it.

“Finish me off and I will grant you release.” His voice is slightly ragged and his massive chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. He must be close.

Jimmy nods without even realizing. He’ll do whatever it takes. So he blinks, fills his lungs, braces both hands on the inside those huge thighs, and takes Deucalion all the way down.

It is  _Deucalion’s_  turn now to jerk forward. He must’ve been taken aback, and satisfaction blossoms briefly in Jimmy’s chest before Deucalion curses, grabs his head with both hands and thrusts in hard and deep. His eyes are watering now and Jimmy almost chokes. He relaxes, reminds himself to breathe, and constricts his throat around Deucalion.

Jimmy can feel the muscles tense in Deucalion’s thighs. He comes with a hiss, and it’s a lot, more than he was expecting, and Jimmy does gag this time. He manages to swallow anyway—he has to if he doesn’t want to choke— and Deucalion lets him go. Jimmy pulls away immediately, gasping for air, his eyes wet and cock still painfully hard.

Jimmy is coughing and spluttering, and he’s thankful for the time Deucalion gives him to catch his breath.

Then he orders— allows— Jimmy to touch himself. And Jimmy does, feverishly, eagerly shoves his pants around his waist and wraps his hand around his leaking cock with a broken moan. Too far gone to care, he’s beyond any shame, any decency; he sobs with relief as he stiffens and spills over his hand, still kneeling at the foot of the beast. Jimmy thinks he whites out for a second, but he isn’t sure.

By the time he comes back to his senses, Deucalion has already tucked himself away. He pushes the chair back nonchalantly and stands up, casting a cursory glance at Jimmy on the floor in front of him before side-stepping him entirely and heading for the door.

Jimmy’s coming down from his high now. He feels cheap. Used. Utterly exhausted. He twists around, stares blankly.

"Why?" he rasps at the giant’s back.

At the door, Deucalion stops, one paw resting on its tarnished handle. He turns to look at Jimmy over his shoulder and says, simply,

"To wreck you. To watch you come undone." Something flashes in those black eyes. “You break so easily.”

He smiles calmly, and the room suddenly feels very cold, very empty. Exactly like the monster standing inside. “It’s beautiful.”

It’s the kindest thing Deucalion has ever said to him.

 


End file.
